I would like to know who keeps moving my stuff. Things like my cell phone, glasses, and car keys constantly show up in unusual spots around the house. Is it forgetfulness? Today's technology overloading my brain? Whatever it is, it’s becoming a trend. Lately I've been reaching for words I cannot find. Names of people evade me. I get to the top of the stairs and suddenly can't remember why I climbed them. Walk into the kitchen, and the reason I'm there leaves me. While I often cannot recall an actor's name, I can usually drag up the first letter of his/her name. "His name begins with 'T'," I tell my husband. To which he'll reply, "Tim Robbins." Clearly, I've helped procure this information, so I call it a win. When I mention to my friends about getting to the top of the stairs and not remembering why, they nod their heads in understanding. I am not alone, though this doesn't make me feel better when my phone goes missing. Witho
* Warning: Foul language ahead! I’m listening to the audio version of “The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck.” This pithy book written by Mark Manson, is a sometimes humorous look at thoughts, behaviors and outcomes; full of logic and f-bombs. Manson pulls apart the concept of why we care about miscellaneous things and how a broad concern for too many things can affect us negatively. Yes, he says, we should most definitely give a fuck about things in our life. But how many fucks is enough and how do we choose what to give a fuck about? Case in point. Mom is an active 88-year-old widow, whose worries over the years have grown dramatically. She is concerned about a broad spectrum of subjects, from the predilection for tattoos by younger generations, to the mere possibility that anyone might get out of paying for their college tuition. She’s upset about facial hair on men and long hair on women. What surprises me most is not only the conviction she has to her opinions but the anger. It stea